


Rejection

by days4daisy



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Blood, Dubious Consent, Knife Play, M/M, Season/Series 01, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 19:24:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3866920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian Gray is not accustomed to rejection.</p>
<p>--<br/>Follows 01x08: "Grand Guignol." Spoilers for Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rejection

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this one for a few months. Decided it was time to post, as it's the eve of Season 2 :) Can't wait for the new episodes!

Dorian Gray is not accustomed to rejection.

He flees the gardens. It is a place where Dorian normally finds peace. Solitude among beauty, albeit fleeting. But, after parting from Miss Ives, the beauty of the flowers faded. The truth of their inevitable deaths was all Dorian could see. 

Dorian returns home, seeking solace from the dirt and noise of London. But home is worse. Silent and heavy under the lifeless stares of his portraits. 

He cannot bring himself to visit his private sanctuary. The painting, Dorian knows, will not be enough to cure his ails. Not this time.

What has he done to deserve this terrible feeling? Did he fail to show Miss Ives the depths of his affections? 

Vanessa Ives is not human. She is touched. Special. Dorian has seen it in her, smelled it in her. She has the potential to give his own joyless existence meaning again.

But now, she is gone, and Dorian finds himself alone with his terrible boredom. Dismissed, like one of the common ones. Those who would do anything to be someone else.

Dorian, too, would be somebody else, if he could. He would become one who would hold the fancy of Miss Ives. 

Others may be afraid of what lives within her. Maybe she is too. But Dorian is not. Her power is exhilarating. He felt it for too brief a time, and he wants it back.

Hours pass, and Dorian is restless indoors. The city is full of mischief at night. Death and sex echo down shadowed alleyways. The cold breath of winter touches his neck. Its chill is a welcome distraction. 

Awake for the first time since the gardens, Dorian's sadness shifts to something darker. Something hungry.

Dorian scours the streets, a beast with the smile of an aristocrat. He attends the bars, wooing ladies and gentlemen alike. None cross to the exit with him. They are all normal. Unimportant creatures.

He abandons the societal ranked and searches, instead, in darker corners of the city. Here, at least, he finds pain among the night walkers. Dorian drinks their anguish with relish. But he cannot bring himself to touch them. Dorian Gray, who will touch anything to add another brushstroke to his terrible portrait. No, tonight these people are not enough.

He kicks at the snow at the side of the docks, teeth gritted in a rare show of frustration. What is there for Dorian now? Is this his destiny, a return to an eternity of flavorless conformity? 

Dorian notices a man huddled in the snow. A mere overcoat covers him, his face hidden by his cap. The figure lies across barrels, rope, and garbage.

As Dorian approaches, he notes blood-stained clothes and skin with interest. Not the man's own blood. Someone else's.

"Mr. Chandler," he greets.

Ethan lifts his eyes into the lamplight. They are wet and large with an unspeakable horror. 

"Do you have the time, Mr. Gray?" he asks.

Dorian quirks a curious brow. "I'm afraid I don't," he replies. "Nearing two in the morning, I'd guess."

Ethan nods and shivers, wrapping arms around himself. "Is it customary for you to be out at this hour?"

"Customary, no. But not unheard of." Dorian smiles. "Surely, you have better accommodations than this in the middle of December, Mr. Chandler."

"Is that an invitation?"

Dorian ponders. It was not meant as one. But Dorian finds that he does not mind the idea.

"I suppose it is," he answers. "Would you like it to be?" Ethan looks at him, eyes wild and desperate.

Dorian waits for his response, but his own gaze grows darker. He can almost taste Ethan's grief.

"What are you?" Ethan rasps.

Dorian chuckles. "I understand your pain, Mr. Chandler. I feel pain myself. Rejection." The word gives him pause. He swallows before he continues. "You are welcome to join me. If you'd like to, of course."

Ethan remains silent. But he stands and tucks his hands into the pockets of his trench coat.

Dorian nods. "This way."

They do not make conversation on the walk to Dorian's home. Dorian casts curious looks at the American every few minutes. Mr. Chandler does not return these glances. He stares down at his feet and, at times, his hands, caked in the dried blood of some poor soul.

He smells of violence and death. Dorian knows these scents well. They make the thirst within him swell. He fears he may set upon this evening's prey before they make it home.

Mr. Chandler is not prey, however. No more than Dorian is prey for him. Ethan is a creature of the night, as much a monster as Dorian. But he masks his ugliness with a genuine quality. 

His earnest soul has endeared him to Miss Ives, this much Dorian knows. How endeared, Dorian does not care to guess. It is no concern of his whether there is more to their relationship. He means this truly, with no envy or ill-will.

Likewise, Miss Ives will hold no grudge after Dorian attends to Mr. Chandler this evening.

Ethan is not like Miss Ives. He craves with every fiber in his body to be someone else. To be free from the daemon he cannot escape. But this passion to outrun his own fate draws Dorian to him. Ethan's desperation would kill ordinary men.

The Help have long since retired for the evening. Dorian accepts Ethan's coat and walks it to the rack in the corner. 

"This way, please," Dorian bids. He guides Mr. Chandler on the familiar path to the portrait room.

Dorian begins to enter, but a hand on his shoulder stops him. He glances at the blood-crusted fingernails hooked into his shirt. 

"I don't need art, Mr. Gray." Ethan's voice is grave. "I don't need music or absinthe."

Dorian catches Ethan's eyes. In them, he reads Ethan's blind, savage fear. "What do you need, Mr. Chandler?" he asks.

"I need what you do best," Ethan says.

Dorian raises a brow. He turns to meet Ethan face-to-face. "And what is that?"

"I need," Ethan leans forward, "you to hurt me."

Dorian's mouth curls. "Hurt you?"

"Yes."

Dorian regards him for a quiet moment. Then, he says, "Follow me."

He leads Ethan away from his main portrait parlor. Instead, they ascend the stairs to Dorian's sleeping quarters. The way is dim, lit by sparsely placed candles in the corridor. Dorian steps into the room and waits for Ethan to enter behind him. As soon as he follows, Dorian shuts the door with a quiet click. 

Ethan stands a few feet away. His despair is palpable, but he does not shrink back or avert his eyes.

"How would you like to be hurt, Mr. Chandler?" Dorian asks.

Ethan does not hesitate. "In every way possible."

Dorian smiles. Interesting..

"Would you undress, please?" Here, Ethan pauses and cocks his head. Dorian laughs politely. "Undress. Please."

After another moment, Ethan does as asked. He unbuttons and removes his shirt first. Ethan drapes the garment across the foot of the bed. Then, he unbuckles his boots and places them against the wall. Ethan's trousers follow, folded on top of his shirt. 

Ethan stands under Dorian's appraising stare, naked except for the blood on his hands.

Dorian steps in front of him. His gaze lingers on Ethan's body, sturdy but abused. Bruises and scars pattern his skin. A few faded lines, but many are fresh. More clues for this evening's foul business.

"Now, undress me." 

Ethan's expression does not waver. Slowly, he raises hands to Dorian's shirt.

Months ago, Dorian's clothes were ripped by the American's impatience. That evening, Ethan's despair was also great. Tonight, he is controlled. Perhaps this restraint makes Ethan's pain more real. 

Ethan eases the fabric from Dorian's shoulders, as if undressing a child. He folds the shirt over his arm, a thoughtful gesture that makes Dorian chuckle.

Ethan lowers to undo his pants next. He begins to roll them down Dorian's legs. Dorian's trousers are more fitted, slower to remove. He gives Ethan patience.

As soon as Dorian is able to step out of his pants, Ethan stands to meet him again.

Dorian's mouth twitches. His expression is Ethan's first punishment. Ethan has been claimed for the night. Dorian's smile signals the defeat of his pride.

Curling a hand across Ethan's neck, Dorian presses their lips together. Ethan's mouth returns the favor with such tenderness. For a moment, Dorian forgets why the are here and what Ethan truly wants.

This kindness, he knows, is Ethan's way of asking. Ethan is too sincere for his own daemons. Dorian is endeared to him, as Miss Ives is, no doubt. 

Dorian tightens his fingers in Ethan's hair. Their kiss deepens. 

This time, there is no question of who leads. In their first encounter, Dorian allowed Ethan to control the early moments. It was easier to guide Ethan to the inevitability of the evening's end. Ethan on his back, drunk on pleasure and absinthe.

Tonight, Ethan parts his lips willingly. He does not fight when Dorian tastes him. And he does not wince when Dorian pulls his hair to angle his head and kiss him deeper. Ethan wraps arms around Dorian. Warm, gentle hands shiver their way up Dorian's back.

Ethan holds him until Dorian steps back. His mouth is a line of boredom. 

With a shrug, Dorian moves to the bed. He sits in the center of his mattress and reaches beneath a pillow.

A dagger is retrieved. Dorian places it delicately between his parted legs.

Arms stretched across the pillow tops, Dorian looks down the length of the bed. Ethan watches with half-awake fascination.

"I'm infected," Ethan says. There it is, the perfect understatement.

Dorian's smile lights his face. "I'm immune," he replies. 

Ethan comes to him. Dorian does not need to say another word. 

Ethan takes the dagger without instruction. He turns the blade, examining the jeweled hilt with interest.

Dorian remembers how Miss Ives brandished the dagger, eyes dark with a menaced joy. Ethan does not revel in the blade like her. But he uses it all the same. 

He brings the knife to his collar and drags it down his chest. A wound opens, shallow and wet.

Dorian sits up on his knees and licks at the blood on Ethan's skin. His tongue alone will heal Ethan, Dorian knows. In swallowing Ethan's sin, Dorian makes it one with himself. The blood on his tongue will be cured by the ghastly portrait. In turn, Ethan will heal.

Ethan does not know this. He only feels Dorian's tongue delighting in his broken skin. 

Ethan slides the blade across himself again, an 'x' over his chest. Dorian presses firm hands against the center of Ethan's back. He licks away sweet drops of blood. Ethan grunts beneath him. His body tenses under Dorian's mouth. 

"What...?"

Dorian peers upward. Ah yes, he sees what has caught Ethan's attention. The American's eyes are large, disbelieving. 

Dorian laughs a bit. It feels good to laugh. "Do you like them?" he asks. "This set is one of my favorites. One of my more provocative collections, surely."

Ethan twists his head around, mouth open and soundless. Dorian's room has four walls. A photograph hangs in the center of each. The subject of each photo is the same: Dorian and Miss Croft, in various stages of undress. The first photograph is of Brona alone, posed with a wonderful, sorrowful smile. In the next, Dorian is in front of her. His mouth is on Brona's neck as he begins to unlace her corset.

In the next, Brona wears only her undergarments. Dorian's hands are on her softer places. Her hooded eyes smolder with want.

In the last, Brona's blood stains Dorian's half-turned face. His patient smile rests against her jaw. Lips dark with blood, Brona's large, wondering eyes stare at the camera lens.

"You son of a bitch." Ethan's words are barely audible.

"Quite captivating," Dorian muses. "Miss Croft is a stunning subject. How is she faring these days?"

Dorian finds himself on his back with the dagger to his throat. Ethan's eyes are black with rage. "Brona's dead," he hisses.

"Dead?" Dorian tilts his head. "Pity. She was a lovely woman."

"She's _dead_. And your room...your fucking room's filled with her _dying_." 

Dorian hums with thought. "Did you not fill your room in the same way, Mr. Chandler?"

Ethan pushes down harder. Dorian feels the bite of the blade in his skin. But he has nothing to fear. Dorian's expression never changes, even when a bead of blood slides down his throat.

"You asked me to hurt you," Dorian reminds gently. "In every way possible."

Despite this truth, Dorian expects Ethan to make good on his threat. Despite his gentle nature, Ethan is an American, at the end of the day. More brute than man. 

But the knife falls to the right of Dorian's ear. Dorian glances at it, then looks back at Ethan. 

The American sinks back on his heels. He looks sick. Beautiful, in his own way.

"Do you still want this?" Dorian asks.

Ethan keeps his head turned, but he nods his assent. Kneeling as he is, Ethan's half-erect cock prostrates over his thighs. His skin is pale, contrasted with the red, bloody 'X' carved into his chest. 

"Get on your hands and knees, Mr. Chandler." 

Ethan's eyes are on him immediately. From his horrified realization, Dorian knows they are both on the same page. Dorian can afford to be subtle about this latest humiliation.

Ethan pushes himself up on shaking arms. His ass pushes upward, curved and smooth. Ethan's body wavers. Dorian smells anticipation on him. Fear at its finest. What must Ethan think Dorian capable of? What does he imagine Dorian will do to him?

And how will Ethan respond when he sees Dorian will only fuck him in this animal way?

This is not a lack of imagination on Dorian's part. Oh, there are so many things he could do. His dagger alone is worth a dozen scenarios. There are other toys he could bring out. Dorian has broken so many souls, in terrible, wonderful ways. 

But Ethan's ruin has nothing to do with blood. He is a man with enough bruises and scars. More blood will not frighten him.

Being fucked like a dog under the lustful gaze of his dead love... This is the definition of suffering. The height of bliss.

Dorian peers over the strong shoulders of the American. Ethan's eyes are closed. When Dorian sets a hand on Ethan's back, he bows his head in prayer.

The wind rattles through loose shutters on the windows. A drunken couple laughs on the street below. 

Inside, Ethan grits his teeth when Dorian fits behind him. Dorian is killing him, but Ethan has never felt more alive.

*The End*

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [Tumblr](http://daisy4days.tumblr.com) if you'd like to say hi over there.


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